Winter at Cray

by Lucy Gillen

  ‘I—I’m not sure who I called for,’ she demurred, her lashes hiding the expression in her eyes. It would not only be Stephen who was curious to know why she had called the name she did, she thought, but Jonathan Darrell too.

  ‘Oh, it was Mr. Darrell all right,’ Jessie Ross assured her blithely. ‘I heard you quite plainly, dear. Anyway,’ she walked to the door, ‘I should get into bed if I were you, Louise. No one will expect to see you downstairs again tonight and the sleep will do you good.’

  ‘I shan’t sleep until you come back and tell me who that man is,’ Louise told her, ‘but I will get into bed. I’m very tired and I don’t think anyone will mind in the circumstances.’

  She undressed slowly, her mind only half on what she was doing, and she was sitting curled up in bed when Aunt Jessie returned, her knees hugged to her, her chin resting on the resultant hump as she gazed into the distance dreamily.

  She looked up sharply when the door opened again and Jessie Ross smiled, a little uncertainly, Louise thought. ‘You’ll be glad to know he’s not hurt,’ Aunt Jessie began. ‘He’s cold and a little exhausted from climbing up that hill, but we can be thankful it’s no worse.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ Louise declared, waiting for the news she feared so much. ‘Now please—who is he?’ Seeing her mood, Jessie came straight to the point. ‘His name is Dupont,’ she told her, ‘Henri Dupont—he’s Simon’s brother.’

  Louise stared at her for a moment, unable to grasp the truth of it. ‘His brother? I don’t understand. What’s he doing here, on Berren?’

  Aunt Jessie shook her head. ‘He says he wants to see you, dear, though I can’t imagine what for after all this time. Apparently he’s been staying with one of the families in the village since last Monday.’

  ‘A week ago!’ Louise exclaimed. ‘Why on earth has he waited all this time, and why come up here at this time of night?’

  ‘If you remember,’ Jessie pointed out, ‘it started snowing during Monday night and it hasn’t stopped since until today. Maybe he wanted to get up here without being seen and that’s why he came at night, though frankly, dear, I’m rather confused by the whole thing.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Still downstairs in the sitting-room at the moment,’ Aunt Jessie told her, ‘but I understand it’s been agreed that he should stay in the spare bed in William’s room until morning. We can’t very well send him down that hill again in the dark, dear, can we, whoever he is?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ It would be a strange feeling, Louise thought, to have Simon’s brother sleeping under the same roof, and not one guaranteed to make her rest easily.

  Aunt Jessie left her alone and she tried to sleep, but found it impossible, for there was far too much on her mind Essie, she guessed, would be up to bed before too late and she hoped the other girl would not want to discuss the man and his dramatic arrival.

  For a long; time she lay and stared at the ceiling, the lamp still alight beside her bed, casting a soft glow over the room, flattering in its softness. Despairing, at last, of finding sleep, she got out of bed and picked up a hairbrush on the dressing-table, finding the soothing regularity of the strokes almost hypnotic.

  She was still engrossed in her task when she heard a faint tap on the door and started almost guiltily, then realised with a smile that it was probably only Essie being discreet in case there was someone with her still.

  She smiled a ready greeting at the reflection of the door in the mirror and called, ‘Come in!’ blinking in surprise a second later when she saw who her visitor was.

  He looked almost as surprised as she did to see her standing there, and she reached back towards the bed hastily for the robe that was draped across the foot of it. ‘Are you decent?’ he asked, his voice low as if he feared to be overheard, and she nodded.

  ‘I—I thought it was Essie,’ she explained, ‘or I wouldn’t have called come in as I did.’

  ‘Well, don’t panic,’ he urged, apparently untroubled by the situation. ‘I only came to see how you were.’

  ‘I’m much better, thank you.’ She still stood before the mirror, hating the flush that warmed her cheeks and thankful for the dim lighting that made it less obvious. ‘I’m sorry I made an exhibition of myself.’

  He dismissed the explanation with an airy wave of a hand. ‘Not to worry,’ he told her, ‘it’s a feminine prerogative to throw a touch of the vapours in times of stress.’ He smiled, that dangerously attractive slow smile, and came further into the room so that she found herself holding the thin robe almost defensively against her, her eyes wide and vulnerable as a child’s.

  She had never felt so gauche and childish in her life and she tried to still the wild flutter of her pulse as he looked at her. ‘I—I couldn’t sleep,’ she said.

  ‘Too much on your mind, I expect,’ he opined. ‘Our mystery man gave you quite a turn, didn’t he?’

  ‘He did,’ she admitted, ‘but I’m quite recovered now, thank you.’ If only he would go, she told herself, she could get back into bed, but he seemed in no hurry to leave and she wondered what else besides his concern for her well-being had prompted this visit. If he hoped to learn more about the reason for Henri Dupont’s visit he would be disappointed, and not solely because she did not know herself.

  ‘Strange,’ he said quietly, ‘that he’s called Dupont too.’

  Louise lowered concealing lashes over her eyes. ‘So Aunt Jessie told me,’ she said. The silence between them at last became unbearable and she moved restlessly away from the dressing-table, her hands vague and uneasy as she spread them in a gesture that was almost surrender but not quite. She raised her head and looked at him again, challenging him to ask questions about the coincidence of the name.

  ‘Dupont’s a fairly common name in France, you know.’

  ‘So I believe.’ The dark eyes held hers for a moment and she could find both curiosity and pity there. ‘But it’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it, being your name too, I mean?’

  ‘I don’t see why it should be,’ she argued desperately. ‘There must be thousands of Duponts in France.’

  ‘But not so many on a remote Scottish island,’ he argued. ‘That two of them should meet in the same house is too much, surely.’

  ‘Well, it’s no more than a coincidence,’ she told him stubbornly, ‘and I don’t see why it should concern you so much, Mr. Darrell, that you have to come to my room at this hour of the night to question me about it.’

  He took the rebuff with the inevitable shrug of amusement. ‘Oh, I didn’t come to pry into your secrets,’ he assured her, ‘but I am a journalist and there seemed to be an undercurrent of something I couldn’t pin down. That, and your spectacular and dramatic cry from the stairs followed by a faint, set my professional nose tingling.’

  Louise flushed, anger added to her embarrassment at having him there. ‘How dare you!’ she said, her voice trembling as she faced him, her mode of dress forgotten for the moment in her anger. ‘You have no right to come in here and question me about anything. It doesn’t concern you who that man is or why he’s here and—and I wish—oh, I wish you’d never come here, I knew you’d be trouble!’ She glared at him, her eyes blazing angrily, her hair awry, the flimsy robe held about her like a cocoon.

  For a moment he said nothing but merely stood looking at her, laughter and surprise in his gaze, his wide mouth smiling knowingly. ‘I’ve said it before,’ he told her softly, ‘and I repeat, you look very beautiful when you’re angry.’

  ‘Stop it!’ She stamped her foot, thoroughly exasperated, and was only vaguely aware of him closing the gap between them when his hands closed round her arms and she heard the deep, warm sound of his laughter.

  ‘Don’t shout before you’re hurt,’ he told her, and a second later silenced her protest with his mouth, holding her so tightly she could not even stir.

  It seemed like hours before she opened her eyes again, her head spinning dizzily, that half-mocking smile the first thing sh
e saw. ‘You—’ She struggled for breath and her freedom at the same time and found both hard to regain.

  ‘Me?’ he teased. ‘What about me?’

  ‘You’re—you’re insufferable!’

  ‘So you said before, or something very similar.’ He seemed so unabashed she hated him for it.

  ‘You behave like a—a—’

  ‘Reporter?’ he suggested, and laughed. ‘Oh, come on now, Miss Kincaid, you must have been kissed before and not necessarily by a journalist. We’ve no monopoly on kissing beautiful girls as far as I know, and you did rather ask for it.’

  Louise glared at him resentfully. ‘I certainly did not,’ she denied hotly, ‘and after what Essie said—’

  ‘Essie said?’ he prompted when she stopped.

  ‘Essie implied you didn’t like women,’ she blurted out impulsively, bending the truth a little.

  He stared at her for a moment before bursting into laughter. ‘Well, I’m afraid Essie’s wrong in that instance,’ he told her. ‘I like women well enough. I just don’t get involved, that’s all, it’s something I can’t afford to do when I have a career to follow.’ The brash, and to Louise, callous admission was the last straw to her and she renewed her efforts to break his hold on her. ‘Let me go!’ she stormed, ‘and get out of my room.’

  He sighed, his eyes still mocking her, his hold as firm as ever. ‘What a temper,’ he said regretfully, shaking his head. ‘Isolation on an island has blunted your sense of humour, Miss Kincaid, or should I say Mrs. Dupont?’

  This time he did not anticipate her move and the resounding slap her palm made against his cheek gave her immense, if only momentary satisfaction. The dark eyes glittered for a moment in mingled anger and surprise, then once again her head was forced back and his mouth covered hers, hard and angry until she fought for breath.

  Neither of them heard the faint sound of footsteps on the carpeted landing outside the door, but a second later the door opened and Essie appeared in the doorway, her head turned to look over her right shoulder, a smile on her face for someone coming along behind her.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she called softly, the door half-way open, and Stephen’s deep, solemn voice answered her. ‘Goodnight, Miss Nostrum.’

  He drew level with the door as he spoke and looked into the softly-lit room, his eyes widening in surprise that gave way to anger when he saw Louise, pink cheeked, pull hastily away from Jonathan’s arms, her eyes not only startled but angry.

  Seeing Stephen’s change of expression, Essie turned her head, gasping surprise when she saw the tableau she had inadvertently revealed. She took only a second to absorb the situation and its possible consequences, then she came hastily into the room. ‘Goodnight,’ she repeated brightly, and closed the door behind her quickly, leaning against it with one hand still on the knob.

  She closed her eyes for a second or two, her lower lip pushed out in a sigh of relief, then the baby-blue gaze looked at Jonathan reproachfully. ‘That was very close,’ she told him, and Louise thought she could detect an edge of chill on her usually cheerful voice. ‘You might let me know,’ she added, ‘next time you propose breaking the habit of a lifetime, Jon.’

  ‘I will,’ he promised, still unconcerned, it seemed, even at Essie’s reproach. ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he added, addressing Louise. ‘Cousin Stephen won’t take kindly to what he thought he saw, will he? His imagination is probably working overtime by now and he’ll be just about on the boil by the time I get back to our quarters.’

  ‘Serves you damned well right,’ Essie told him maliciously, and Louise looked at her anxiously.

  ‘You needn’t get ideas about Louise either,’ he told Essie, ‘she was more sinned against than sinning.’

  ‘So I gathered,’ Essie said quietly, her eyes on his face. ‘I rather thought you’d planned that little scene for Stephen’s benefit at first, but I can see now that it must have been almost over by the time we got here. Sorry I interrupted.’

  He pulled a face at her, and put one hand to touch her cheek, the fingers caressing softly, his eyes contrite. ‘Don’t be a pussy, darling, it isn’t often I misbehave myself, now is it?’

  ‘No,’ Essie admitted, reluctantly won over, and a moment later the usual cheerful smile beamed across her face. ‘Go on to bed,’ she ordered him, ‘and I hope Stephen Kincaid kicks you hard!’

  He laughed, the deep, soft sound that always had the effect he wanted it to. ‘Charming,’ he laughed, ‘goodnight, Essie.’ He inclined his head in a gesture ridiculously formal in the circumstances. ‘Goodnight, Louise, I’ll try and make it right with Kincaid.’

  ‘Well,’ Essie declared as the door closed behind him, ‘that’s the first time in all the years I’ve known him that I’ve ever caught Jon Darrell in a lady’s bedroom.’ The shrewd blue eyes surveyed Louise for a moment, as if she was still curious about the incident, and Louise felt uneasily guilty.

  ‘He—he came to see how I was,’ she explained. ‘We quarrelled because he would ask so many questions, I—I resented them and—well, I slapped his face.’

  ‘I see.’ Again the blue eyes surveyed her shrewdly. ‘Well, you must have something special to have lured him from his self-imposed discipline. I must find out what it is before we leave.’

  ‘It wasn’t as bad as it looked,’ Louise objected, hating the thought of losing Essie’s friendship.

  ‘It didn’t look bad at all,’ Essie told her, with a smile that did much to curb her anxiety. ‘Except to that jealous cousin of yours, of course. I think I know Jon better than to jump to conclusions, and one swallow doesn’t make a summer, as they say.’

  It was, Louise realised, a generous view of things if Essie was as fond of him as Louise thought she was, and she vowed never again to give Jonathan Darrell the opportunity to repeat the episode.

  Despite the events of the previous night, Louise slept well and it was only reluctantly that she woke to face the prospect of meeting her husband’s brother. She was curious to know why he should have so suddenly decided to visit her, but apprehensive too, especially when she thought of Robert.

  Essie, blessedly silent on the subject of Jonathan so far this morning, smiled at her over her tea cup when Louise looked across at her. ‘At least it’s still stopped snowing this morning,’ she said, ‘but it still looks pretty grim out there.’

  ‘I’m afraid the boat won’t be coming,’ Louise told her. ‘So you’re still stranded for a while anyway.’

  ‘I’m not complaining,’ Essie admitted frankly, ‘and surprisingly, neither is Jon, which isn’t like him at all.’

  Louise sighed regretfully that the subject of Jonathan Darrell had had to be raised after all, it would be a great relief all round when the boat did come and their visitors could leave. In the meantime if he had to be mentioned, she might as well display as little interest as possible.

  ‘Perhaps he isn’t as averse to the wilderness as he professes to be,’ she suggested, as if it mattered little either way.

  Essie shook her blonde head, a thoughtful frown between her brows. ‘We’ve been stranded before in places as quiet as this, only for the odd night or two, but usually long before this, Jon’s been bored stiff and fretting to get back to town.’-The big blue ingenuous-looking eyes looked across at Louise speculatively. ‘Maybe he smells a story,’ she suggested, and Louise shivered in sudden and inexplicable coldness.

  Jonathan appeared at breakfast but disappeared very soon afterwards, and Louise wondered where he might be, uneasily suspecting he might have sought out their uninvited guest, who was, so she was told, still sleeping. It was Essie’s hint that Jonathan might have smelled a story in the man’s arrival that had set her mind running in that direction, and it was a discomfiting thought.

  It was not until mid-morning coffee was brought that she discovered his whereabouts, and finding him with old Emma Kincaid in the little sitting-room did little to ease her suspicions. She suspected he was not above questioning her great-grandmother about her
, Louise’s own history, and that she would object to most strongly. Perhaps Stephen had been right about old ladies being very indiscreet.

  She frowned when she saw them together, seated cosily beside the fire, and she hoped her expression conveyed her disapproval of the situation. The old lady appeared to notice nothing amiss, and Jonathan merely flicked a brow upwards in brief curiosity, then looked at her with an expression that told her her disapproval had been both noted and dismissed.

  ‘I didn’t expect to find you in here, Mr. Darrell,’ she informed him, using her most discouraging tone. ‘I haven’t brought you a cup, I’m afraid, the others are having their coffee in the big sitting-room.’

  If she had hoped to break up the meeting with such devious tactics she was doomed to failure, for the old lady glanced at her sharply. ‘Then fetch another cup,’ she ordered, ‘or have your own coffee with the others. I want Jon to have his here with me.’

  Louise hesitated only briefly, her eyes challenging the interloper to go, but he feigned not to notice and she felt her temper rise at the temerity of him in ignoring her obvious hint.

  ‘Very well,’ she said shortly, ‘I’ll fetch another cup.’ She turned and walked, stiff-backed, across the room, aware of two pairs of eyes following her progress with amusement, and she could not restrain an impulse to slam the door behind her.

  She returned a few minutes later to find the two of them animatedly discussing Canada, and they both looked up as she rejoined them, noting her stubborn expression and the high, angry colour in her cheeks. As she sat down, the realisation came to her that she had not felt so stirringly alive for a long time, even if anger was the cause of it.